Shattered
by EmBlsD
Summary: Just a snapshot of quiet everyday struggle Kirsten might have faced. Kind of angsty but I hope enjoyable in a thought-provoking way. I don't really know how to describe it but I promise its short, give it a try. Please review, its my first story!


"She" is not mine, I'm not making any money off of her and no infringement is intended.

Hiding her tired eyes behind designer sunglasses, she waved and flashed a fake smile at her neighbor as she unlocked the door and walked into her house. It had been a long day at work, listening to people fighting about completely inane things and pretending that she cared. Closing the door behind her and leaning against it she dropped her bag, taking a deep breath of the cool, quiet, familiar air. Compared to the sauna outside, the house was heaven, especially in the late afternoon before her husband and children got home. The golden afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, coaxing a warm glow from the light wood floor. Hearing the clock strike five, she reluctantly pushed herself from the strong support of the door and headed towards the kitchen for something cool to drink.

Trudging into the cold white room she headed towards the freezer. _Damn it,_ she thought as she realized she had forgotten to go to the liquor store earlier that day. Panic began to tug at the edges of her exhaustion. She opened the fridge and was relieved to see a bottle of wine in the door. Taking it from the fridge it she grabbed a cup as she walked around the island in the middle of the room. She glanced disinterestedly at the label as she went through the motions of opening the bottle, briefly registering that she was drinking an eighty dollar Chardonnay before pouring herself a glass and downing it, relishing the familiar warmth that settled in her stomach. The second glass coaxed some of the tension from her tired muscles, the third and fourth taking the edge off of her headache. With the fifth glass finally came the numbness she sought.

The dependable grandfather clock struck 5:15, warning her that her family would be arriving home soon. She set her glass down on the counter in front of her and gripped the lip of the island counter, her hunched shoulders slumped over the long expanse of her arms which gave way to the pale underside of her wrists. _When did my arms become so skinny and pale? And when did my veins become such stark contrasts to them, as if the dark tendrils were not part of me but merely a dark and unfamiliar path through me to something else? _she thought to herself. She was startled from her reverie by the happy squeals of children enjoying the bright summer day. She finished her glass and poured herself one more, finishing off the bottle. Taking it with her she walked past the built-in trash and recycling containers, which fit so neatly into the counters, bypassing them for the recycling bin in the garage. She groaned and angrily buried her face in her free hand as she realized that her husband must have put the bottle into the fridge for the nice dinner they had planned. How would she explain its absence? If only she thought more before she did these things! Not that there was anything wrong with "these things", she soothed her burning conscience. She easily concocted a lie, something about accidentally breaking the bottle when she was taking something out of the fridge, thinking wryly that lying used to be a lot harder, when she wasn't so practiced. She walked over to the bin and threw the bottle in as hard as she could in an attempt to break it, just to confirm her lie if he happened to come out here this evening.

As she made her way back inside she noticed a bright stream of blood meandering its way down her arm, probably the byproduct of a small shard of eighty dollar Chardonnay glass. She moistened a paper towel and began to clean up her arm as she re-entered the kitchen. The wound seemed to continue with renewed vigor the moment she had cleaned her arm, and giving up she reached up into a cabinet for a band-aid. A small drop of blood fell from her arm, missing her glass of wine by mere centimeters. Wiping the wound once more and putting on the band-aid, she went to wipe off the counter but paused, entranced by the sight of the dark red against the sterile kitchen. Once again startled out of her reverie, this time by the sound of her husband's car in the garage, she quickly swept up the blood and finished her glass of wine, setting it in the sink. Dropping the paper towel into the garbage compacter so neatly tucked into her kitchen, she made her way out to greet her family.


End file.
